We Are Born Innocent
by Rhodanum
Summary: Even when he lay on his deathbed, feeling the fire consuming him from the inside, his thoughts invariably turned to the two women who had helped shape his destiny – one who had brought him into the world and the other who would take him out of it.


**Disclaimer: **_Avatar: The Last Airbender_ and all of its characters belong solely to Brian Konietzko and Mike DiMartino. Sadly, I own nothing.

**Author's Note: **Because I wasn't paying any attention, I got bitten by another _Evil-Plot-Bunny-of-Doom_ (serves me right for not being careful!) Well, at least this one's a short story, unlike the others, which are trying to grow to monstrous lengths . . .

**Genre: **_AU__Psychological Drama/Spiritual_

**Rating: **T (PG-13)

**Characters: **Zuko, Katara, Ursa.

**Synopsis: **Even when he lay on his death-bed, feeling the fire consuming him from the inside, his thoughts invariably turned to the two women who had helped shape his destiny – one who had brought him into the world and the other who would take him out of it. In the hours of burning fever and delirium, he could not even tell them apart anymore.

**Warning: **Character death, some graphic descriptions (third-degree burns are certainly no laughing matter).

* * *

_**We Are Born Innocent**_

**Part One – Touch of Pain**

* * *

_The sun shines and I can't avoid the light  
I think I'm holding on to life too tight.  
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust  
Sometimes I feel like giving up yeah...  
I said, sometimes I feel like giving up. _

'Cause me... I'm rusted and weathered  
Barely holding together  
I'm covered with skin that peels and  
It just won't heal.  
I am rusted and weathered  
Barely holding together  
I'm covered with skin that peels and  
It just won't heal  
It just won't heal.

**Creed - Weathered**

* * *

_She had smelled heavenly, of lavender, nutmeg, sweet musk, cool mornings, warm, golden afternoons, loving moments, tears of joy and sadness. It seemed impossible to speak of a person's scent in such a manner, but to him she was all these things – and more. A refreshing breeze in the wind, causing the wood chimes to gently sway, a sad, longing smile. A warm hand, caressing his tear-stained cheeks. A soft voice, whispering in the comforting hours of darkness. _

_He remembered her – and at the same time, he did not. She was almost like a dream, a chimera and a wispy creature of Air, threading her fingers through his hair, speaking only half-remembered words. She was the midnight reverie, nearly forgotten with the early hours of dawn, dissipating like mist, even when he desperately tried to cling to her in some way. Always, she slipped through his calloused, roughened fingers, like flowing grains of sand, leaving behind her nothing more than the memory of a sad smile in the dark and half-forgotten words of encouragement. _

_And that had always been enough for him, even in his darkest days. A simple memory of youthful innocence, of a time when life had been much less complicated. He had laid on his back, on the grassy knoll, staring up at the clear, summer skies, remembering her warm arms and enveloping, protective embrace. He had felt safe, secure, when she had held him, allowing him to watch the clouds flowing over the skies, while she murmured tales that he had no recollection of anymore. _

_And to him, it had been enough, even though he had always desired something **more**, something laying somewhere out of reach, on his peripheral vision, something that he could never touch, but that he always felt close by. An untold desire, a hidden heartache, covered by a thick armor of anger and hatred, thrumming in rhythm with his own heartbeats. Always running, moving, chasing, never stopping , he had felt the ache growing inside him, along with the memory of a melancholy smile, but he had always set it roughly aside, denying himself, forgetting who he really was, seeing himself only through the narrowed, selfish eyes of others. _

_But in the end, a faded fragment of innocence wasn't enough. _

* * *

He lay in the same, unchanged position for so long that he sometimes believed all his joints had surely turned as hard as stone. Not that he could have been able to move, even if he had wanted to do so. He saw only night surrounding him on all sides, dark and unending, with no ray of light piercing the flowing obscurity. He barely heard, muffled and subdued, as if his head had been submerged underwater. All sounds, voices, whispers and shouts seemed to be coming from somewhere very far away, faded, pale echoes barely reaching him. He was grateful for this, though, as it allowed him to forget what was truly happening around him, to sink deep within his own mind, where very little could still reach and affect him.

He still felt, but this sense was also nothing more than a cruel simulacrum of what had once been. The pain may have varied, but it was omnipresent, always there, like a twisted companion, holding his hands and tauntingly whispering in his ear, telling him that it would never let go. Sometimes it subsided to nothing more than a dull throb, which he had easily learned to ignore, but on other days, his whole body felt as if it were dipped in flowing, liquid fire, causing him to nearly squirm and shift – which, of course, brought on only more pain. When he felt the Healers' hands on his body, he knew what was to come and silently grit his teeth, to keep himself from screaming. He had shouted at them, threatened, very nearly pleaded them to stop, but they always did their duty, with unflinching precision. As he felt the layers upon layers of linen bandages which covered his body being unwrapped, tearing skin away with them, it was all he could do not to howl. The agony lasted only as they cleaned him, dabbed on some foul-smelling ointments which caused him to almost retch and wrapped new, crisp bandages over charred skin and flesh. Always, he gnashed his teeth together, nearly biting off his own tongue, but managed not to let a single moan of pain escape through his lips.

It was a cruel irony that he should have kept his accursed pride even in such bleak moments and that he was sentenced to perish by flames, of all things. The Spirits surely had a dark, twisted sense of humor.

He could still smell, he had long ago realized. Out of all his senses, it had stayed the strongest, but, ultimately, it did him very little good. The thick, humid air of the small room in which he lay was filled with the scent of jasmine oil vapors, emanating from a vat of warm water, which served to humidify the dry air and ease his ragged, uneven breathing. The oil's scent mixed together with the stinging odor of the antiseptic balms and the sickly-sweet stench of charred human flesh, making his stomach twist violently each time he took a deeper breath. The scent of his Uncle's favorite tea, blended with that of impending death were enough to nearly cause him to throw up what little liquids the Healers could get him to drink. There were moments when he nearly wished to stop breathing, so that he wouldn't have to feel that smell, that almost perverse mockery of his life. In its stead, he would imagine the cool, crisp air of the mountains, or that elusive, half-remembered scent of maternal love, which was always present in his dreams and nightmares.

As the days slowly crawled by, he fell in and out of consciousness, sometimes wavering between the two, in a land of uncertainty and illusion. He would lose almost all knowledge of himself in those times of delirium and vivid hallucination, a fact for which he could only be grateful. Even though they may have been nothing more than beautiful, untouchable lies, those illusions still made this parody of life seem somewhat easier.

And then, there was _**her.**_ _The Waterbender._ He could always tell her apart from the other Healers, by her soft, nearly inaudible footsteps, the rustling of her long hair and the feeling of her hands. The girl's touch was different than the others – just as careful and professional as a Healer's, it nonetheless held something more in it, a soft gentleness and delicacy that always painfully reminded him of _another._ While he hated the others for showing such familiarity towards him and going so far as to tend to even his most intimate of needs, he had quickly found out that he did not – _could not_ - resent the Water Tribe girl. He touch, light and cool on his burned, overheated skin, felt like a soothing balm for both his body and soul. It never hurt quite so badly when she adjusted his position or fixed any of the torn bandages. There was something miraculous in her touch, something that he was unable to describe in human speech, but which always calmed and settled him down.

Whenever he heard her footsteps, felt her taking a seat on the small stool next to his bed, he always relaxed. Perhaps, if it didn't hurt so much, he may have tried to smile a little as well. Always, her palm was placed on his bandage-wrapped forehead, moving lower to check his pulse. She rarely spoke, but he was never bothered by the quiet, soothing silence which fell over the room, making him forget - if only for a short while - of the pain and darkness which surrounded him. Sometimes, he would hear her stifling a gasp or a sob, which invariably caused his hackles to rise. He loved – _**craved**_ - her soothing touch, her calming presence, but he did not want her pity, had never asked for it. She had ran out on the verge of tears several times, but each time she had come back, with the same steadfast precision of a new day dawning.

While he roughly jerked his head away whenever one of the Healers tried to feed him, he stood perfectly still when her small hand cupped his head, raising it from the pillow, so that he wouldn't choke on the liquid. He felt the canteen's rim touching his cracked lips and he opened his mouth, allowing her to gently pour some water down his scorched throat. It was unsettling how the very same water tasted far sweeter when drank from her hands than from those of any other. When he was done, she would pull the recipient away and wipe the excess water from his mouth and chin with her fingertips. That soft, feather-like touch had caused him to twitch and gasp the first time had felt it. The pain of even that small movement had been horrendous, but compared to the contentment that her gentle caress had brought, it had been a fair trade.

And so it went on, with each passing day and night. She would stand by him, a silent pillar of strength and he would accept her tender care, even when he wished that all others would just drop down and die. When the pain became particularly unbearable – or when his hallucinations turned more wild – he wished that he could still bend, that he could incinerate any of those who dared get close to him, hear their mangled shrieks, feel the ever-familiar stench of charred flesh wafting through the air and then smile, knowing that at least another living being in the world shared his agony and knew how it was to be _him._

Strangely enough, _she_ had been the exception. He had never harbored any kind of homicidal tendencies towards her, even during those precious few nights, when she had fallen asleep in her chair, next to his bed. He could never see her, but he always heard her light, even breathing, so unlike his own. As trusting and naïve as she had proven to be, time and time again, he ferverently prayed that such a gruesome fate would never befall her. The very image of dark hair and smooth skin being blackened and twisted beyond recognition by the flames made him unconsciously clench his jaws. He did not know from where these new, disturbing thoughts sprung forth – ironic in their own way, since, during his doomed quest, he had not cared whether the Waterbender was hurt or not by his actions. Perhaps the fact that her care evoked so many painful and long-buried memories within him had something to do with it. With his mind's eye, he could see the wall of darkness fading, being pushed aside, by a dark-skinned, blue-eyed girl, whose cool hands and warm voice complemented each other so perfectly.

He could never envision her clearly, as her image always shifted and distorted within his mind, changing from that of a teenaged Waterbender to a hazy remembrance, a tall, elegant woman, with flowing, dark hair, noble features and kind, golden eyes. Often, the line between the two was so blurred that he was almost incapable of distinguishing one from the other, of telling exactly who was who. But that had ceased troubling him long ago. As he slipped further and further into the obscurity which surrounded him and gave up all remaining ties to the world of the living, he realized how much the two were alike.

How gentle they could be.

How much their touch hurt, for it always brought back memories of a broken, shattered life, only half-lived. But he still held on to that sole remaining sensation, despite the anguish it brought him.

_They_ had always said that persistency had been his greatest asset and most notable failing, so why should he contradict them know, when his life was being held in the palms of their gentle hands?


End file.
